


Don't Leave Me Lonely

by excessnight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Drugs, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4105174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excessnight/pseuds/excessnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It catches up to you, in the end. Leaves you thirsting for more. If only they realized that, they wouldn't have lost each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Leave Me Lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've been looking for a lover  
> Thought I'd find her in a bottle  
> God, make me another one  
> I'll be feeling this tomorrow  
> Lord, forgive me for the things I've done  
> I was never meant to hurt no one  
> I saw scars upon a broken-hearted lover."

"I'm going out," he said as he pulled on his leather jacket, feeling the surge pulse through his veins.

"You're going to get drunk, aren't you." A statement. Observation. Deadpanned.

There was a silence. There was no reason to explain to each other what they did when the other wasn't around. Dean had failed Sam. Sam didn't care because he thought he failed Dean, too. So when the silence held, Sam didn't care and Dean knew that.

"Lock the door," he said as he opened the door. It didn't even hold the tone of an order, he'd lost that somewhere down the line.

"I'm not a child anymore," Sam said without inflection. Dean ignored his words as the door closed behind him. It was chilled out, but it wasn't anything he was uncomfortable with. He unlocked the door to the Impala and climbed in, starting the engine and without waiting for her leather seats to warm, he reversed out of his spot and headed on the main road. He didn't bother with music. Didn't care to.

There was a time when he would have cared. Would have cared a whole damn lot. But lately, he just kept slipping away. There was a period of time where he was completely happy with his life. Having Sammy - no, it was Sam, Sammy had died with Sam's bad habits and the words, "How could I even love you anymore?" - was all he needed. Sure there was dive bars, easy women and exhilarating hunts. But Sammy was always by his side. And then there was the "I love you, Dean," that sent him over the edge. Sent him into a space where everything that mattered before and all that was left fell into place of just being Sammy and nothing else. No more drinking, no more women, no more throwing himself in the line of fire for Hell's sake. It was Sammy and his safety and their happiness and fuck literally everything else.

He wasn't sure where they'd gone wrong. It had all been so right. The kisses. The sex. The love they shared and the brotherly bond that would never fade no matter what. But, what did it matter anymore? Sam didn't care, so Dean chased his pain and fears away with a bottle. Because that was all he knew. That was what he knew before Sam and him and it would be all he knew long after them. But it wasn't just the pain he chased away. It was the guilt too. The reminder of what he'd done. Oh, how badly had he fucked it all up to the point of no return.

He pulled into the bar that had somehow become a red beacon that screamed Home and parked the car. The second he slipped the Impala's keys into his jacket pocket and slipped out of the driver's seat, he felt the air shift. His skin vibrated and he could feel the itch just lying there. This would be a repeat of another night. He would be able to handle it. He could do this. It would be fine.

And then he'd walk through the door and he'd feel it. It was different then the other bars. The ones from his past. The early 2000s. This was a different kind of bar, yet he could still pick a damn fight. Man, was he itching for a fight. He paused a second, pulling out his phone and scrolling down to Sam's number. Even his contact read Sam instead of Sammy.

 _Keep the door locked. No matter what_ , he sent before slipping his phone back in his pocket.

He walked towards the bar, pulled out the stool with his toe and then sat down as his phone buzzed.

 _Don't come back drunk._ That was all it read. But Sam knew that wasn't going to be true. Dean came back drunk almost all the time and drank just as much as their father had. He had to chase away all the bile that was left in his throat. Had to feel so shit-faced that he'd forget the sting of his bruised knuckles. He'd forget, but come morning, he'd remember every goddamn thing he'd done and go right back to the bottle. It was a vicious cycle he put himself in and he didn't have the energy to pull himself out. And neither did Sam.

"Whatever you got on tap that's a lager," he said to the bartender who nodded at him. "Shot of whiskey, too." He knew it would take him at least five shots and two beers before he was down for the count, but he just needed enough. To chase away the pain. The reminder. The shot came first and without preamble he knocked it back. Then the beer. His phone vibrated again and he looked at it. From Sam.

 _Come home._ He wasn't begging. Dean knew that this was a lie. Sam didn't want him to come back. Then his phone buzzed again.  _Door's unlocked. Come back._

He shut off his phone and slipped it back into his pocket, raising his pint to his lips and sipping on the forth. It wasn't strong, but eventually he'd get there. Shots of whiskey and pints of beer would do that to him. Fuck him up beyond recollection. Then he wouldn't have to think. Wouldn't have to remember that the bruises under Sam's eyes were because he stayed up late at night fighting off Dean. Drunk Dean, who out of hatred for himself and hatred for what he had done, lashed out and attacked Sam. That his bloodied knuckles where from hitting doors, punching walls, hitting Sam. There was no reason, but it didn't stop. And he had quit lying to himself long ago that he was a good man and he could do better. Now it was just a ticking down to when Sam up and left.

He hit Sam. God, he _hit_ Sam. Feeling the whiskey burn in the back of his throat, threatening to rise with the rest of the bile in his stomach, he tipped his glass up and started to chug. Gulp after gulp, he felt the fear and hatred slowly simmer down to nothing. But that didn't stop the memories. Of how it all started. Or where he went wrong and what he had done to fuck up the most perfect thing ever. So when the bartender turned to look at him, Dean nodded for another round as his mind slowly slipped into his problems.

 ---

"Sammy baby, look what I got!" Dean said as he walked in the door, holding up a six pack. "Time to celebrate!"

But as he closed the door and turned around he didn't like what he saw. Saw the blank expression of Sammy's face. The one that looked vaguely pissed off and tired. A shiver ran down his spine and the smile on his face dropped. This was supposed to be a celebration, not a funeral.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Sammy said as he crossed his arms and widened his stance.

"Celebrating?" Dean emphasized as he shook the case, letting the bottles clink together. "You know, it's not every day we risk our lives like we did," he said, words lacing with sarcasm. But the light-hearted tone did nothing to change Sam's expression.

"Thought you quit drinking," he said gruffly.

"Never said anything like that," Dean said as he sighed, setting the case on the lone table in the room, then shrugging his jacket off. "I just promised there would be no more late night drinking and sex with women or anyone else. Look, can we just relax, kick back, enjoy ourselves?" he said, growing steadily irritated. But when Sam made no move to get comfortable and 'relax', he knew something was off. The silence stretched on for longer then necessary and then Sam spoke.

"Get out," was all he said and Dean stiftened.

"Excuse me?"

"Get out. I don't need you here if you're going to get drunk off your ass.  _We_ don't need that," Sam said pointing between the two of them. Dean furrowed his brows in irritation as he stood to his full height.

"We? Sam, I'm not going to get drunk. I'm going to relax, calm down there Princess," he said but there was no playfulness in his tone.

"Then get out. I'm not going to stand by and watch this happen again," he said as he moved forward, lifting up the case of beer and shoving it into Dean's chest. "Go drown yourself like Dad did for years," and then it hit home.

"Don't fucking talk to me like I'm like Dad," he snapped out as he pushed the case away. "Now get that stick outta your ass and have a beer with me," he said making to finish the conversation by reaching out and grabbing a beer. Sam pulled the case away and slammed it on the table.

"We've fucking talked about this! Has it not gotten through your head that you can't drink?  You have no idea what you become when you fucking drink, Dean. It was either me or the bottle, you can't just fucking have both," he shouted. He was pissed, Dean knew that, but he had control. He'd be fine. "Oh, and don't you go thinking you have self control because, heh, boy you don't know what the hell self control even means." That did it. That crossed the line.

"You know what? Fuck you, Sam. I have the self control not to drive the fucking car off a goddamn bridge and end this pain for both of us. I have the self control to not fucking beat the shit out of you for being an ungrateful lil shit that you are. I know fucking self control, and lemme tell you, a few goddamn beers aren't going to send me over the edge," he snarled out. Then he realized how far over the edge he had gone, realizing what he had said and how purely out of anger it was. He opened his mouth to fix it but Sam was already moving. He saw the total shutdown of emotions in his brother's eyes and knew there was nothing he could do.

"I spent years hating Dad, looking up to you. But you're just like him. Scare tactics? Threats? Ya ever tell the girls you were sleeping with you wanted to fuck your little brother? Ever fucking tell them that you had to control yourself from not killing them? How could I even love you anymore? When all you want to do is become the very monsters that you hunt," Sam said as his voice rose in volume. "Go fucking drink yourself into a goddamn coma, you hypocritical, self depricating bastard!"

Then Dean hit him. He didn't remember how but his hands twitched, clenched and then he had enough. Whether it was at himself that he was done with or Sam, he couldn't remember and he wasn't very good at keeping his temper in check when things got this heated. He felt the hard impact against Sam's jaw and watched as his brother's head snapped to the side before Sam's fist came around and caught Dean in the cheek. His head ached and then he felt Sam's fist aim at his mouth and he tasted blood.

"Get the fuck out. I don't want to see you again," Sam said quietly as he rubbed his jaw and turned into the bathroom. Dean stared for a moment before grabbing his jacket and pulling it on. Then he grabbed the case of beer and slammed the motel door on his way out.

 ---

He was on his third beer and already had four shots in him, but the bartender had cut him off from the whiskey. Said something like he 'wouldn't sell anymore to watch a poor bastard who wanted to drown himself.' But he didn't stop serving him beers, which was a change of pace. His head was starting to buzz and he could feel his body swaying a little, but he used all his control to keep steady. Not to move and just seem relaxed. He could do it. Then he could leave, go back to the motel and crawl into bed with Sammy.

Sammy. His Sammy. His precious, baby boy. His whole world, the light of his dark and fucked up life. What he would do without him he didn't know. Probably kill himself. Yeah, that. After he set his empty glass down, he raised his wrist and looked at the time. He couldn't make out the numbers that kept shifting on the face of his watch. Grunting, he sniffled and wiped his nose before pushing himself off the bar stool, leaving a fifty on the counter for his tab.  _Focus, Winchester. Walk out of the bar and drive back to the motel_ , he thought to himself and with his head held high, he somehow made his slight stumble look like a normal swagger.

When he was outside the chill was more then he could handle. He felt around in the back of his pants for a gun. No gun. He checked for a knife in the holster on his leg. None there either. The chill creeped over him, making his insanely warm skin tingle and vibrate with life and as he got into the Impala. He had to rest his forehead against the steering wheel and grasp his bearings. He could do this. He could drive. He just had to remember where the motel was. Where Sammy was. He had to get back safely to his baby or things would go wrong. He wasn't sure what, he couldn't focus enough for that. So he started up the Impala and tried to figure out how to get back.

\---  
  
When he pulled up to the motel room that he thought was his, he was glad they weren't on the second floor. He was almost 100% sure climbing up stairs was not going to end well for him. He got out of the car, closing the door just a little too hard, as he headed straight for their door. The lights were still on which was weird. Sammy should have been in bed. It was late. He always went to bed before Dean got back. And then, he felt off. He felt so off. Something was wrong. He couldn't explain it but he felt like something was wrong and Sammy must have been in danger. Where was Sammy? He could feel it and suddenly he grew very worried.

"Sam! Open the damn door!" he yelled out, feeling his body sway. His focus wasn't good. Then the door was pulled open and he lost his center of gravity and was falling forward. Spinning. It hurt. Then suddenly there were warm hands keeping him up and fuck, no they couldn't touch him and he pushed at them. They burned and he hissed out in pain. It couldn't be Sammy. Sammy's touches never burned him. He looked down at his arms and scowled at them. When he looked up it wasn't Sammy, it was a monster wearing Sammy's face. Sammy had left a long time ago. Sam was in dangerous. This Sam wasn't his Sammy, this was a monster. "You fucker, you took my brother," he growled out as spit drooled over his lip.

"Dean, I'm fine. I'm Sam, I'm fine," the monster hissed out and Dean swore it had black eyes. And he hated black eyes, seen enough of them to want to never see them again. Or maybe those were bruises under it's eyes. He didn't no and he didn't care, all he knew was he was weaponless. So he swung out. It had taken his baby away from him and it was all it's fault. "Stop it!" it screamed at him and he just laughed when a punch caught him in the jaw. It stung and he swayed, not seeing clearly, taking a few steps back. He felt his blood run hot and he reached for an object on the table. A gun. Or maybe a book. It was heavy and it was solid. He threw it at the creature and charged at him. Suddenly he felt it's claws wrapping around his throat, squeezing and not letting go and so he raised his fist - sloppily formed into a fist, and threw it at the creature's jaw. He felt a crack but he didn't feel pain. He felt numb. And angry.

"You fucking took 'im you fuckin' bastard," he slurred and then the creature grabbed a bottle off the table. He wasn't done, fuck this. Where was his knife? Where was his gun? Where had he put them? He had no idea and he was slipping, slipping so fast that he couldn't grab onto anything and then suddenly the bottle crashed into his head, shattering against his skin and he was out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be Sam's view of things.


End file.
